


A Detour in the Dark

by Malfi1230



Category: Patrick Brewer - Fandom, Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malfi1230/pseuds/Malfi1230
Summary: David does something selfless, and nearly pays a very high price.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 9
Kudos: 229





	A Detour in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting. I'm a moderate fan of the show and a big fan of these two. Comments appreciated.

The night was crystal clear and cold, and despite the city lights more than a few stars were visible above them. It was an objectively beautiful night, but neither David nor Patrick was in a place to appreciate it.  


Patrick was irritated, frankly. The trip to the city had been stressful. David had wanted to go to expensive stores, and would then get petulant when he remembered he couldn’t really afford them. Patrick had no interest in the stores and had followed David with mounting impatience. A few art museums had pleased both men, catering both to Patrick’s desire for touristy enjoyment and David’s aesthetic sensibilities, but the mood never quite recovered after the Prada fiasco that Patrick was actively trying not to relive.  


They’d gone to a play that evening to avoid wasting pre-purchased tickets, but neither was truly in the mood. During intermission, Patrick made the executive decision to walk out, ticket price be damned, and David made no complaint. Hell, they’d tried.  


The streets were deserted when they exited the theater, David complaining about finding a cab.  


“Um, ok, I just think this is a bit ridiculous. Why are there no Ubers within ten minutes of us? Where are we exactly? I didn’t think it was still possible in the first-world to be out of range of an Uber…”  


“David, please stop. I get it, you’re tired, but right now I really need to focus on where we are. The hotel is within walking distance. If you just shut up I can figure out where we are right now…”  


“Stop, now, both of you. Don’t move. Wallets.”  


Both men froze, Patrick a bit ahead of David and David fumbling with his cellphone in Patrick’s wake, at the sight of the stranger with the rough, hostile voice and his hand around something long and pointed in his jacket pocket.  


When they had come to the theater an hour or so before, the sun had been setting and the streets were bright and busy, but now, quite some time before the crowds would exit at the end of the show, Patrick and David were alone. The downtown area wasn’t known as a safe neighborhood, but Patrick hadn’t anticipated any muggings. I guess no one who gets mugged ever does, one detached corner of his mind mused, as he fumbled for his wallet. David did the same, and Patrick reached back to take it and pass it up. Through the panic, he felt something like relief. David was behind him. He was between David and the stranger. Anything that happened would happen to Patrick first.  


“Cellphones too.”  


Patrick reached slowly into his pocket and brought out his cellphone. David, of course, had his phone already in his hand. He took a step forward and handed it to the stranger, reaching around Patrick to do it and brushing Patrick’s arm.  


This done, the mugger didn’t seem to know what to do next. He peered up and down the street as if surprised there had been no intervention. Patrick hesitated. Somehow, this moment felt more dangerous than what had come before. When he had been holding his wallet, this man had needed something from him. Now, the man was still here, and Patrick and David had nothing beneficial left.  


In the next several days, Patrick would wonder over and over what had provoked the mugger. He finally concluded it must have been his own slight, instinctually gesture towards David. Some impulse of comfort or protectiveness—something made him reach back towards David only slightly.  


“I said don’t move!”  


Time, which had slowed, suddenly began moving very quickly.  


The man’s hand in his packet jerked up and swung forward. For a moment, the long, black barrel of the object he was holding snagged on the fabric of his pocket, slowing the progress of what Patrick could now confirm was a gun in its trajectory to point at his chest. In that moment of delay, Patrick felt David grab his arm from behind him—the same arm that had strayed towards David just a moment before. David jerked, hard, and Patrick stumbled backwards, struggling to keep his feet. In the same movement, David stepped forward, using the momentum of Patrick’s backwards sprawl to move in front, sweeping Patrick into his shadow.  


The gun’s retort sounded, deafening at close quarters. The mugger took off running.  


Patrick had the absurd, almost childlike desire to run after the man. He might have done it, but David’s physical weight stopped him. David seemed to have tripped, falling backwards like he had been gently pushed. Patrick braced him by the shoulders.  


“Hey, you alright?” Patrick asked this almost absently, as if the answer was already known by both of them. “Come on. We need to find a phone, or a cop, or something.”  


Something hot and sticky trickled onto Patrick’s left thumb, where it gripped David’s left shoulder.  


David didn’t say anything, but glanced down at his own chest. In the fluorescent, flickering glow of the street lights, Patrick could make out a dark stain spreading across David’s dark sweater more by the change in the texture of the fabric than any change in color.  


“Oh no. No.”  


David’s knees buckled, and Patrick lowered him to the ground, one hand cradling David’s head to keep it from cracking against the cement sidewalk. David looked up at him, still making no sound.  


“David, you’re ok. You’re fine, everything’s fine. I promise. It’s ok.” The reality of David being shot still wasn’t sinking in, but some textbook corner of his mind offered up first aid suggestions. What do you do for gunshot wounds? Don’t you apply pressure? Stop the bleeding? Patrick whipped off his jacket and pressed.  


David let out a gasp that ended in an agonized croak.  


The unreality of the moment cracked. Patrick screamed for help.

__________

The absurdity, of course, was that the mugger had just taken Patrick’s phone. He could do nothing but shout. Eventually, an usher stuck his irritated head out of the theater down the street behind them and saw Patrick waving from the ground where he crouched over David’s sprawled form. The tableau seemed to speak for itself, and the man came running, cellphone in hand. Dispatch was informed that a man had suffered a gunshot wound to the chest. Medical personnel were sent.  


It seemed to take entirely too long. Seconds passed sluggishly, and Patrick kept up a stream of nonsense language, ostensibly for David but perhaps for himself. He was in no position to offer reassurance, but David seemed to accept it. At first, he looked fixedly into Patrick’s face, his expression somewhere between contentment and focus. When his gaze slowly began to fade into the middle distance, Patrick grabbed his face, curling his fingers around the nape of his neck, and shouted demands. “Don’t do that. Just look at me. Stay awake.”  


He didn’t even notice the ambulance until it was on top of them. The usher was waving it down. Suddenly, both the lights and the sound of the siren seemed painfully discordant, as did the terse demands of the paramedics who inserted themselves neatly between Patrick and David, assessing the situation and setting priorities. Little effort was made at stabilization. The decision was immediate—David’s best chance was to reach a hospital.  


“I’m coming.” Patrick hoped there would be no argument on that. He didn’t want to waste the time.  


“Are you a relation?”  


“Husband.”  


Done. Patrick clambered into the square vehicle and it took off at a surprising speed.

__________

It was unexpectedly quiet inside. Everyone’s attention was on David, lying quietly on the gurney. The words the three paramedics exchanged were succinct and soft. Patrick crouched against the wall of the ambulance, wishing he could get closer to his husband, but there was little room between the three sets of shoulders of the people actively working towards David’s survival.  


The mind can be a cruel and pointless instrument—Patrick’s never once thought to warn him of dark streets and dicey characters before he had made the decision to leave the play early, but now that disaster had fallen, it was pointing out the myriad reasons why the situation was his fault. If he hadn’t suggested the play, if he hadn’t insisted on using the tickets when they were both tired, paradoxically, if he had stuck with that mode of thinking and pushed through to the end of the play. If he had listened to David’s complaints of footsoreness and called a cab, or waited for an Uber. And for the love of God, if he had kept David behind him—hadn’t let David take him off guard like that. It felt unnatural. He was perfectly willing to stand between David and danger. The reversal made him absurdly, impotently angry.  


And of course, one small pocket of his mind turned suddenly spiteful. If he dies, the last thing you will have said to your husband will be to shut up. Your irritation will be the last real conversation you ever have.  


Patrick didn’t realize he was crying until a paramedic, who had turned to ask him what David’s blood type was, distractedly tossed him a packet of tissues. Patrick caught them numbly, stared down at them, and spent the rest of the ride silently weeping.

__________

The last time Patrick had been to a hospital had been for an electric shock suffered trying to rewire a light in the store. David had been making snarky fun of his attempts to sub in as their electrician, and Patrick had been good-naturedly laughing along, knowing that eventually the electrician would be called, when the unpleasant jolt that somehow burned without heat leapt up his arm all the way to his shoulder. He had gone rigid and yelled, and instantly, David had been beside him, which had been fortunate since Patrick’s legs had almost given way beneath him. He remembered noticing the contradiction between David’s almost hysterical voice, demanding if he was ok, what had happened, and David’s steady hands leading him over to a chair, then taking him to the car and driving him to the hospital. Once there, the two had had to wait over four hours, David becoming increasingly waspish with impatience and worry, while Patrick had started to smile again, feeling certain enough that he was essentially ok to enjoy the scene.  


This time, there was no waiting. David was brought in without a stop in the waiting room, the paramedics pushing the gurney forward as if it were an Olympic event. As they progressed through the hospital, Patrick racing behind, more and more personnel joined them, and the muted conversation of the ambulance cab grew into a cacophony of medical jargon. Just as they entered what must have been an operating room, a nurse stepped in front of Patrick. He nearly ran through her, but she was surprisingly sturdy.  


“No observers, sir. No family. Not in the OR.”  


“I’m his husband—I need to be with him.”  


“I’m sorry. You can wait nearby, but you can’t go in. That’s a sterile space. You need to stay out. It isn’t safe.”  


He wondered if he could sneak by her, but by this point, other nurses had come over and were gently leading him away. One asked his name and the name of the patient. She made notes on a clipboard as he spoke haltingly, and when he mentioned that he was here because of a gunshot wound, she looked up and said that the police would very likely be coming by, and that he should stay close. “They will want to speak to you. When they come, I’ll bring them to you.”  


The police. Weren’t they supposed to stop crimes from occurring? So much for that. Patrick leaned against the wall and looked up blankly at the ceiling. He started counting cracks and pit marks in the tiles, just for something to fill his mind beyond the continuing self-incriminations. He slowly let his back slide down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, with his knees around his ears.  


He waited for hours. He waited for eternities. At some point, a police officer was led over to him. The officer seemed to ask way too many questions, many of which had similar if not identical answers. Patrick answered anyway. Again, something to do.  


Finally, the officer finished his litany of questions, looked down at Patrick where he still crouched on the floor, handed him a card with a number to call if he thought of anything new or had any questions, and offered apologies and well wishes. His concern was well-practiced, but seemed sincere. Patrick looked up and made a wan attempt at a smile.  


At some point later, Patrick thought of David’s family. He should tell them. They would want to know. They would want to be here. But when he reached the telephone an orderly had pointed out to him as available for use by family of patients, his hand punched in his own family’s number instead.  


His mother picked up on what must have been the 11th ring. “Hello?” she answered blearily. Clearly, she had been in bed.  


Patrick felt distantly guilty. Of course she had been in bed. It was 2:45 am. “Mom, I’m so sorry to call this late. I just needed…I don’t know what I needed…I’m sorry.”  


“Patrick, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her voice was suddenly blisteringly awake and aware—the sort of immediate reversal in mood of which only a mother in fear for her child is capable. “This isn’t your phone. Where are you? Are you hurt?”  


“No, not me.” His voice was bitter. “I’m fine.”  


“David.” It wasn’t a question.  


“A mugger. He wanted our wallets. David was shot.”  


“Oh God. Patrick. Where was he shot? Where on his body?”  


“Chest.” Had it been the left or right side? That was important. The heart was on the left side of your chest. Patrick couldn’t remember. The events of the night were turning blurry, taking on a nightmarish tinge that obscured detail.  


“What is his condition?”  


“He’s in surgery. No one has told me anything yet. They wouldn’t let me in.” He heaved a big breath. Tears were threatening again. Somehow, he had an inexhaustible supply of them. He felt weak and helpless—a feeling he had always hated. I’m a take-charge guy, he thought mockingly. “Mom, he stepped in front of me. I couldn’t stop him—I didn’t have time to move in front again. He stepped between.”  


“Of course he did. He loves you, son. And you would have done the same.” His mother’s voice was kind and unsurprised. Patrick could hear a rustle in the background, and his father’s quiet murmur.  


“I should call his family. They need to be alerted. I just needed…” Needed to put it off a bit? Needed comfort? He couldn’t keep the dread out of his voice at the thought of telling Johnny and Moira about these events. He didn’t think he could handle melodrama on top of the ongoing trauma.  


He heard a whispered conversation between his mother and father, and then his father took the phone. “We will do that, son. You need to be taking care of yourself, and you need to be available when they have news about David. Just tell me the name of the hospital.”  


He hung up the phone a few minutes later, feeling a sluggish ripple of gratitude.

__________

Around four am, a doctor came to find Patrick leaning against a wall in the hall near the OR. He had been led repeatedly to a waiting room nearby, but somehow kept coming back to this spot. Eventually, the nurses seemed to have made their peace with his presence.  


“Patrick Brewer? You are David Rose’s husband?”  


“Yes.” Patrick stood bolt upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. His stomach felt urgently knotted. “How is he? May I see him?”  


“Your husband just came out of surgery. He had suffered a GSW in his chest.” The doctor paused, then elaborated. “A gunshot wound. Mr. Brewer, the bullet missed his heart.” She said this part slowly, making conscious eye contact. Patrick slowly absorbed that she was giving him good news, and something inside him unclenched infinitesimally. He nodded. “It did hit his left lung, which collapsed. Also, there was no exit wound, so we had to extract the bullet. This was difficult. The bullet was a small, low caliber round. That’s a good thing. This meant it caused less damage. All the same, it took a while to get it out. Your husband has lost a lot of blood, but surgery went well. We’ve taken him to a room in the ICU.”  


“Can I see him?”  


The doctor tilted her head to one side and offered a professional smile. “He is still sedated, and will be out for some time.”  


“I don’t care. I need to be there.”  


She nodded. “Of course. Come with me.”

__________

Patrick felt alone and hesitant at the threshold of the hospital room door. David looked so…still. Under normal circumstances, David was the most expressive person Patrick had ever met. Overly expressive, superfluously expressive. Even asleep, his face never seemed to stop moving. Now, his face was somber and motionless, his hands still by his side.  


Patrick walked haltingly in and collapsed in the chair that had been considerately left by the side of the bed. He leaned forward and picked up one of his husband’s hands. Again, it was still, but as warm and soft as ever, smelling of the hand cream they sold in Rose Apothecary. Patrick picked it up and pressed it to his lips, then noticed the rising sun creeping in the window.  


“Good morning David.” He smiled. “We’ve been out all night. Remember that time you kept me up all night watching the final season of Downton Abbey? You said you wouldn’t be able to sleep until you finished it. That was back when we were in my studio, and no matter how low you kept the volume, there was no sleeping through it.” At the time, Patrick had been fairly irked, but after a good night’s sleep, it had seemed endearing. Detachment in any form, from anything, had never been David’s strong suit. “Listen, David, I don’t know if you can hear me. But I am just going to sit here talking to you as if you can. Knowing you, you’ll either wake up so you can talk back or wake up to tell me to hush.”  


So Patrick talked. At first his words came haltingly; he found it awkward to make conversation without any contributions from the person with whom he was ostensibly conversing. But the longer he talked, the more Patrick realized that in most instances, he could imagine something of what David would say, and this let the conversation develop as if he had heard the responses. He wandered from remark to memory to story. He laughingly remembered the day they had met, when David had walked into Ray’s to apply for a business license, clearly ill at ease and posturing confidence to conceal his nerves. Patrick had sympathized. Starting a business was scary. Starting anything new was scary. Hadn’t stopped them from starting Rose Apothecary, or starting their relationship.  


Patrick had been so nervous in the days just before their relationship had began, though his nerves revealed themselves differently than David’s. Sideways smiles when David wasn’t looking, small gestures easy to misinterpret, and early morning hikes that gave him the quiet he needed to figure out that yes, he did have feelings for a man, and no, there was no guarantee that man would like back, but yes, he probably did need to do something about the whole situation. Setting a goal had helped. Patrick had always been goal-oriented, though most of his goals were quite different in character from this one. Apply for small-business grants. Check inventory. Ask out man and determine if he also has feelings for you.  


Despite setting the goal, Patrick wasn’t sure what would had happened had David not taken the first physical advance. Setting up a “date” had been nerve-racking enough, and he had been somewhat stymied and disappointed by Stevie’s sudden appearance at David’s birthday dinner. Her early departure was encouraging, but when he found himself sitting in the parked car with the tension mounting, all he could do, once conversation had lulled, was gaze at David. Maybe his expression had been clear enough, or maybe David just knew what he wanted, because he had leaned in, curled one hand around the base of Patrick’s head, and pulled his lips against his own. And suddenly, Patrick got it. Why romance was such a motivation for so many. Why it drove them to such lengths, and why they missed it when it was gone. Why there was an entire industry around it, for which people would pay. He hadn’t understood the fuss before. But the whole thing was just about getting something, a book, a movie, a moment, that would give people this feeling.  


When he had told David that he had never done that with a man before, David had been surprised, but not dismissive. And when he had asked if they could talk tomorrow, David had said, “We can talk whenever you’d like.”  


He remembered that moment, that quiet assurance, when David had sat down with him after learning that no, Patrick’s parents didn’t know about their relationship. They didn’t know, because Patrick had been too scared to tell them. For a moment, Patrick was terrified that David would be angry at him, would feel betrayed as he had when Rachel burst in on the barbecue. He would have understood that. Instead, David had been supportive, concerned, and focused on Patrick--refusing to make the situation about himself. “What you are dealing with is incredibly personal. And you should only do it on your own terms.” He’d held Patrick for as long as he’d needed. Then, he had snuck off to deliver Patrick’s parents a gift basket, soothe any potentially ruffled feathers, and arrange for Patrick’s coming out to proceed unimpeded.  


“You are very contradictory,” Patrick told his unconscious husband. “I move the lip balms and it’s a slight directed at you. But I don’t tell my parents we are in a relationship, and all you are worried about is my feelings and my birthday.”  


The sun was now up. Patrick was still holding David’s hand in the same chair he had sat down in hours ago. Nurses had been coming and going, checking vitals and offering Patrick cups of water when it became clear that he was not going anywhere. Despite the water, Patrick noticed that his voice was starting to go hoarse. And his eyes burned. He hadn’t slept last night.  


The doctor came in at some point, holding her chart and smiling the same smile of professional concern. She told Patrick that David’s vitals looked good. He had lived through the night. No problems. A good sign. So far, no complications following surgery.  


“When will he wake up?” The stillness made Patrick nervous.  


“Soon, maybe. The sedation has probably worn off at this point.”  


Patrick stayed where he was. He sipped the water. One nurse who seemed a bit younger than the others offered to bring him something to eat. He refused. He knew academically that he was hungry, that he must be, just as he knew academically he was tired. Eating and sleeping seemed equally impossible at the moment.  


He was talking about a road trip they had taken, when Patrick had learned just how many Mariah Carey albums was too many Mariah Carey albums, when David’s hand stirred gently in his. His words fell off midsentence, and David’s hand freed itself from Patrick’s and gently turned Patrick’s head toward the head of the bed.  


David’s eyes were open. He was clearly bleary, clearly foggy, but he tilted his head on the pillow and smiled crookedly at Patrick.  


“Hey. You ok? You look terrible.”  


Patrick made a noise halfway between laugh and sob. He stood up, swaying slightly, and practically fell over David, caught between his need to feel David awake and alive in his arms and his fear of hurting him and his very raw wound. He leaned over the bed, hands cradling David’s face, and kissed him frenetically, David making odd soothing noises, until finally, Patrick just rested his forehead against David’s, gasping with the agony of his relief and restraining the tears David certainly didn’t need to see.

__________

In the weeks that followed, during physical therapy and recovery, Patrick asked David what he remembered about the night he was shot. David said he remembered most of it quite clearly, up until the gun shot. “I definitely remember leaving the theater. And I remember the man, and hearing the shot. Then I felt burning, then kind of cold and weak. I don’t remember falling, but suddenly I was on the ground. I remember you were there. And I remember being carried. Then everything got very blurry and dark.”  


Later, David said he remembered dreaming. “Weird dreams. Very commonplace. You were just talking. Talking a lot, actually. And it was all about us. Our first date, our wedding. That road trip. You said some very unkind things about Mariah. I wanted to correct you, but I couldn’t answer. That part was pretty frustrating, but all in all it was a lovely dream.”

__________

One night, months later, when Patrick couldn’t sleep, he woke David, knowing he was being selfish, and asked, “Do you remember pulling me behind you?”  
David was irritated at first, and uncomprehending. “Patrick, really?”  


“Do you remember pulling me behind you just before the man fired?”  


David sat up and looked directly at Patrick. “Yes. I do.” He said it without affect or evasion.  


“Don’t do that again.”  


“Well, ideally Patrick, I won’t have to. Frankly, I’m not planning on ever going to a piece of dramatized theater ever again, or letting you. And frankly, given the quality of that one, I think we are both better off.”  


“I mean it. Don’t ever do that again. Please.”  


Patrick was urgent. An untrained observer might think he was angry. David knew better.  


“Patrick, I can’t promise that. I mean, seriously, hopefully this will never come up again, but honestly, I don’t even remember deciding to do it. It felt like something that I had known I would do for a long time, you know? It felt like a compulsion.” David rubbed Patrick’s back soothingly. “And you can’t really throw stones here. You were trying to do the same thing.”  


They both sat in bed for a while, Patrick breathing deeply while David rubbed his back, until finally David pulled them both back to the pillows. David held him, Patrick’s head against his shoulder. Outside, the wind shook the trees, but the rustling was reassuring—evidence of the strong walls around him and his husband.  
He sighed, and closed his eyes.


End file.
